


Three Years Later

by zelda_zee



Category: Lost, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-07
Updated: 2008-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Chase. Three years later, Jack and Dean meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Years Later

It’s been three years, but Dean knows who it is the second his eyes land on that close-cropped head of dark hair and those broad shoulders encased in black leather, tapering down to a narrow waist and the tight, rounded curve of a really fine ass. Oh yeah, Dean would know that really fine ass anywhere. He’d always thought that maybe there’d come a time when he might encounter it again, but time had gone by and paths hadn’t crossed and eventually Dean had stopped expecting to, and wouldn’t you know, that’s exactly when it happens.

So seeing Jack Shephard, aka Doc, aka The Doctor, leaning against the bar in some skeezy tavern is a shock. He stops in his tracks just inside the door and Sam bumps into him and there follows an embarrassing moment when Dean almost loses his balance and Sam has to grab onto him to keep him upright, but luckily Jack’s back is to them, as well as that really great ass, and he doesn’t turn around, so Dean’s dignity, such as it is, is preserved.

“Dude! Ow!” says Sam, rubbing his nose where it had bumped the back of Dean’s head.

Dean freezes there just inside the door, which he realizes is a mistake when Sam shoulders him out of the way and walks to the bar, coming to stand right beside Jack. Dean swears to himself because given his druthers he would have taken a minute or two to get his bearings, but no, it looks like things are gonna move right along lickety-split because for some unknown reason Sam says something to Jack and all of a sudden they’re _chatting_ and Sam’s holding out his hand and Jack’s shaking it and Dean hears Jack say, “Sam _Winchester_?” in a surprised tone and then Jack is looking around the room and his eyes light on Dean and he’s staring and staring and there’s something dark in his gaze that makes a hot, licking flame of desire flicker down deep inside of Dean’s body and Jesus, what is it about this guy, and is he really still standing here frozen in the doorway?

Dean makes himself move, walking slowly forward, noting the little smile that curls Jack’s lip and the sparkle in his deep brown eyes and the way Sam is looking at Dean like he’s out of his mind. Which he may well be.

“Hi,” says Dean. God, he’s flushed and breathless and he can feel the stupid grin he’s wearing but he can’t seem to school his face into a less idiotic expression.

“Hi,” says Jack, holding his hand out for Dean to shake, and Dean, feeling like he’s moving underwater, does. Jack’s palm is rough and calloused and that’s definitely a change from the last time they’d met. Dean looks down at their hands. Jack has a jagged scar across the back of his wrist, circling around the base of his thumb, still a little pink at the edges. Dean can see inked patterns disappearing into the cuff of his jacket and his stomach does a little flip recalling the tattoos coloring Jack’s arms and shoulders. These are new. Dean wonders if there are other new tattoos, hidden beneath all the obtrusive layers of clothing Jack is wearing. Suddenly it is imperative that Dean find out.

“Um. So I guess you guys know each other?” Sam’s glancing back and forth between the two of them, his eyebrows somewhere up around his hairline.

“We’ve met,” Jack says, his eyes still on Dean’s face.

Dean licks his lips unconsciously and Jack’s eyes darken. Dean realizes he still has Jack’s hand and he quickly lets go.

“Yeah,” says Dean, blinking as he frantically tries to regain his self control.. “A couple years ago. Chupacabra case. You were busy boning the yurt-girl, remember?”

Sam presses his lips together, clearly disapproving of Dean’s lack of respect for the yurt-girl, but for the life of him Dean can’t recall her name.

“I remember,” Sam says. “Her name was _Chynna_ ”

“Chynna? Jesus, no wonder I didn’t remember. Anyway, Jack worked that job with me. His first job.” Dean grins at Jack and Jack grins back. “We’ve been hearing stories about you, Doc. You’re making quite a name for yourself.”

Jack shrugs and ducks his head and Dean is reminded that Jack has that sort of shy, modest side to him. When he’d thought about Jack over the past few years – and yeah, he’d thought about him, it wasn’t like he couldn’t admit to that – he tended to think about the moments when Jack had been being neither shy nor modest. He tended to think about Jack’s wicked laugh and dark eyes and the strength in those now-callused hands and that beautiful, _oh god_ , that big, beautiful cock of his. Dean feels his own dick twitch just thinking about it and he resolves right then and there that he’s going to get the doc alone and have it all again, tonight if he can, or whenever he can manage it, however long it takes.

“I hear stories about you guys too,” Jack says. “Lots of stories.”

“Well,” says Dean, pulling over a bar stool and positioning it close to Jack’s. “Don’t believe everything you hear. You know hunters – prone to exaggeration.”

The bartender comes over and they order a couple of beers. Dean casts a sidelong look at Jack. He’s staring at the counter, a smile twitching at the corner of his lip. He’s thinking about the last time he and Dean were together, Dean has absolutely no doubt about that. He’s thinking about fucking Dean, thinking he wants to do it again.

Sweat breaks out on Dean’s upper lip. Fuck, he wants that.

God _damn_ Jack Shephard. Dean can go three years without feeling any particular urge in that direction and thirty seconds with Jack turns him into a horny bottom slut. Fucker.

They move to a booth, Sam, Dean and Jack. Jack lounges across from them, his eyes moving back and forth. Dean thinks he’s comparing, looking for the resemblance, trying to figure out the whole brother thing.

“You know Hurley, right?” Sam asks. “How’s he doing?”

“Pretty well,” Jack says. “I still check in with him once in a while. He’s living the good life, mostly. He thinks I’m crazy, doing this.”

“You are crazy.” Dean's never understood how Jack could do that, ditch the house and the cars and all that money. The guy had it made. “Giving up what you had.”

Jack shrugs “It works for me, Dean. I don’t regret it.”

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself,” Sam says. “Cleaning out those vamp nests and all.”

Jack looks embarrassed. “Everybody’s got a specialty.”

Dean smirks. “That’s not your _only_ specialty.” Jack looks at him, his eyes wide. His gaze flicks nervously to Sam then back to Dean. “Jack used to be a neurosurgeon. Right, Doc?”

“Oh.” Jack’s relief is patently obvious. “Yeah, that’s right. Not that it has much bearing on what I do now.”

“Surgical precision,” states Dean. “Or so we hear.” He grins. “You’ve come a long way from letting a goatsucker make a meal outta ya.”

Jack snorts and shakes his head. “Man, I was so far over my head on that hunt.” He tilts his beer bottle at Dean. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

Dean looks him straight in the eye, takes a swig of beer, licks a drop off the rim, before he says, “Oh, I had my reasons.”

He feels Sam shift on the bench beside him, but he doesn’t look away. Sam’s just gonna have to lump it. This is too important for Dean to worry about Sam getting his panties in a bunch.

“So, are you in town long?” Jack asks. His face has gone sharp and focused, watching Dean mouth the rim of the bottle. Dean can feel the energy between them, building fast. Christ, he needs to get Jack alone. The men’s room maybe or out back. He doesn’t think he’ll make it to a motel.

“Nah, we’re just passing through,” Sam says.

“Yeah, we’re staying down the road,” Dean says at the same time, talking over Sam. Sam gives him a _look_ and Jack grins in amusement.

“We’re staying down the road,” Dean repeats, glaring at Sam and speaking very clearly.

Jack raises his eyebrows and Dean has the distinct impression he’s trying not to laugh. He excuses himself to take a leak and as soon as he’s gone, Sam rounds on Dean.

“What the hell, Dean?!”

Dean goes for affronted innocence. “What?”

“I am not cooling my heels here just so you can have a booty call,” Sam hisses. “One beer, that’s what you said, and then we’d hit the road again.”

“What’s your hurry? It’s not like Bobby’s gonna care if we show up a day late.”

“It’s not that. It’s the _principle_. I’m always waiting around for you, Dean.” Sam’s stupid hair flops into his eyes and he frowns in that same pouty way he’s had since he was about three years old and Dean finds himself thinking that it’s true that Sam does have to wait around an awful lot while Dean gets laid.

But on the other hand, that’s Sam’s fault for not making more of an effort to get laid himself.

“Well, you should find something to entertain yourself,” Dean says, jerking his head toward the cute waitress who’s been eyeing them since they came in. “Time flies when you’re having fun, Sam. You might not remember that.” Sam just scowls at him, looking mightily irritated, so Dean, knowing it will be more effective in the long run, if perhaps more embarrassing in the short, drops the act.

“Look, Sam, this is different. _He’s_ different.”

“He’s a _he_ , for one thing,” says Sam.

“Oh, come on,” says Dean. “Don’t give me that. You’ve known for years. I don’t exactly make a secret of it.” It’s one of the things they don’t talk about, that Dean plays for both teams. That doesn’t mean Sam doesn’t know. He’s known since that winter they spent in Butte he was twelve and Dean was sixteen and he’d walked in on Ryan Murphy blowing Dean on their living room couch.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. I know.”

“C’mon, Sam. I want this.”

Sam is silent for a moment, studying him.

“Jeez, Dean. What did that guy do to you?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Sam wants to _know_?

“Well,” he says, wondering where to begin. “He was recovering from a _chupacabra_ attack, so we were kinda limited in terms of mobility, but what we ended up doing is –”

“Rhetorical question, Dean!” Sam exclaims, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Jesus, I _so_ do not want to know that.”

“Oh.” Dean considers for a minute. “So can we stay?”

“Yeah,” Sam consents wearily. “We can stay.”

“Awesome, dude.” Dean can’t help smiling. He slaps Sam on the back. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better believe you will,” mutters Sam.

By the time Jack gets back Dean is at the bar paying their tab. Jack comes to stand beside him, close, their leather-clad shoulders bumping.

“We done here?” Jack asks, looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

“We are,” Dean says with utter certainty. “We couldn't be more done if we tried.”

“Sam?”

“Sam’s otherwise engaged.”

Dean nods toward their booth where the cute waitress is now perched on the bench across from Sam. He’s leaning forward, giving her the full-on puppy dog eyes. _You go, Sammy,_ Dean thinks.

Jack turns to face him. “And you? Are you 'otherwise engaged'?”

Jesus, that look! Like Jack wants to eat him up, swallow him whole. Dean’s used to people wanting him, but there’s something about the way Jack looks at him that isn’t just want, or maybe it is, maybe it’s just pure, unadulterated lust, Dean isn’t sure. Truth is, with Jack staring at him out of those fucking pretty brown eyes, looking at him like he’s about to back Dean up against the bar or maybe bend him over it, and just take what he wants, well, it does something to Dean’s brain, pretty much reduces him to basic motor function.

“I’m –” His voice comes out too breathy. He clears his throat. “I’m all yours.”

Jack’s smile is sharp as a knife.

They make it out the door, around to the back of the building before Jack has him against the wall, grinding against his hip, a hand on his dick and his mouth open against his ear.

“That’s your car, right?” Jack asks.

Dean focuses his eyes. The Impala is parked right behind them.

“Yeah.” It comes out as a hiss, because just then Jack squeezes his cock, then goes for the zipper. “ _Fuck_.” Dean’s head hits the brick wall. “Why?”

Jack doesn’t answer, just kisses him hard, hand behind his head, thumb right at the hinge of his jaw, working little circles until Dean opens wide and lets him in. Jack’s tongue takes possession of his mouth at the same moment that he slides his hand into Dean’s fly and wraps it around his cock. Dean moans and writhes and thrusts and some part of his overloaded brain warns him that he’s in danger of just letting go and giving it up like he hasn’t in a long time.

Jack bites at his lips, sucks on his tongue, fucks into his mouth. It isn’t a seduction, it’s an assault, fevered and frantic, verging on out of control. His hand on Dean’s cock, though, _that_ isn’t out of control, that’s just right, tight, fast, rough. Dean pushes his hands up under Jack’s t-shirt, running his fingers through all that hair. Fuck, he’d forgotten how much he likes that. Jack is thinner than before and more muscled and Dean thinks that naked, he’d be all hard angles and spare lines. His thumb traces the ridge of a new scar on Jack’s shoulder, then finds the one he knows is there, the chupacabra scar on his side and Jack shivers and grunts at his touch. Dean thinks of that tattoo he’d seen peeking out of Jack’s sleeve, wonders if his fingers are moving over patterns and colors that he can’t see.

“You got new ink,” he pants, when Jack draws back and nudges his chin up so his can get at Dean’s neck.

“Mmmm.” Long lick, teeth nipping the muscle, tongue right below his ear.

“I wanna see it,” Dean gasps.

“That can wait ‘til later.” Jack’s voice has gone deep, just the way Dean remembers. It makes his knees weak. He tilts his head back farther, submitting. “Know why?”

“N-no.” It comes out wrapped around a moan.

Suddenly he’s yanked around, dragged a couple paces, his mind racing to catch up, his body uncoordinated, shoved face down onto cold, black metal.

Jack’s voice is a rasp in his ear. “Cuz I’m gonna fuck you on your car first.”

Dean’s mind whites out at that. The moan that escapes him is too loud and desperate, the way his hips flex and roll is too shameless. He’s just _gone_ , helpless to put on the brakes. Jack pulls his jeans down over his ass and he spreads wide as he can, cursing the constriction of the denim around his thighs.

“Fuck, yeah,” Jack breathes. “Prettiest ass I’ve ever seen.”

Jesus, he’s lost, Dean thinks, because that’s the kind of comment that’d get a guy flattened in the normal course of things, but when Jack says it, he fucking _whimpers_. Jack’s hand is at his hip, holding him, keeping him still. The other one traces the curve of his asscheek, slides warm between his legs, cupping his balls, rolling, squeezing. Dean’s hands close into fists, his forehead presses to the hood, his breath blows warm and damp against the metal, fogging it. His skin is covered in goose bumps but he isn’t cold – should be, but his body’s churning out heat like a freakin’ volcano. He can feel sweat at the small of his back, between his shoulder blades, in the crease of his thigh.

The hands leave him and there’s the sound of metal clinking against metal, zipper opening, foil tearing and it makes him shiver and salivate, makes his dick twitch and spit slick-wet onto the car beneath him. Fucking Pavlovian response, no better than a trained dog, but he’s hungry for it, _fuck_ , he wants it. He can feel his body trying to open up and Jack hasn’t even touched him yet and then he does, a cool, slippery finger sliding in deep and sure. Dean tilts his hips up into it and tries really hard not to beg for more.

“Just fuck me,” he demands, though his voice is shaking all over the place. “C’mon, man, I don’t need all _tha-a-a-a-_ ”. Jack pushes a second finger in, slides them over Dean’s prostate and stays right there, massaging flickering bursts of pleasure out of him that leave him babbling and trembling and helplessly humping the hood. He hears Jack chuckle darkly and it sends another jolt of heat to his dick.

Jack leans over him again until his mouth is at Dean’s ear. The smell of leather and sweat and the rich, earthy smell of Jack makes him moan.

“I’ll decide what you _need_.” Another finger and Dean groans at the stretch. Jack rotates his hand, spreads his fingers wide and Dean winces because, damn, it's been a while, a long while, and he’s really out of practice. “How long?” Jack nips Dean’s earlobe. “How long since you’ve done this?”

“D-done what?” Christ, he can’t think. “Ahh, that fucking –” It hurts, but he bites his lip before he says it. He’s Dean Winchester. He can take a little pain.

“You know what.” Jack’s breath is hot on his neck. “Since you let someone fuck that pretty ass of yours.” Jack’s tongue worms into his ear, in and out and Dean shivers.

“You know how long,” Dean gasps. “Since – _oh god_ –” Jack’s hand pushes beneath his body and wraps around his cock and that pretty much takes care of any pain Dean had been feeling. “Since – since –” He jerks and thrusts and _oh shit oh shit_ , so fucking good, it hasn’t felt this fucking good since he doesn't know when.

“Yeah,” Jack whispers, “I know “. He kisses Dean’s jaw, the corner of his mouth. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

And isn’t that Jack, right there. The bastard can be toppy as hell, manhandle Dean all over the place, make him want to give it up like he never does, not for anyone, make him want to _beg_ , and he’s still worried about hurting him. Dean turns his head into Jack’s kiss, opens his mouth with a groan. Wet and sloppy and full of sex and need and God, he missed this. There’s no one else he’d let do this to him. No one else, and he isn’t sure what it is that’s so fucking special about Jack Shephard, but damn, the guy knows how to play him, how to work every angle, push every button. Dean isn’t crazy enough to think it’s love, but he isn’t dumb enough to write it off as just lust. He can’t begin to define it, but Dean learned long ago that you don’t need to understand the _why_ of things to believe that they’re real.

And nothing has felt this real in a long time, Jack plastered against his back, his tongue down Dean’s throat, three fingers fucking in and out of his ass, his hand around Dean’s cock, and his baby beneath him, warm now where he’s pressed against her, and slick where he’s leaked onto the metal.

“Jack,” he groans. “Jesus, fuck me or kill me, I can’t take it – I can’t –”

“Oh yes, you can,” Jack says breathlessly. “You can take it, and you will.” He straightens up and there's suddenly cold air chilling the sweat on Dean’s back. He feels empty and open, and for a minute he can’t feel Jack at all and he looks over his shoulder, feeling too exposed. But then Jack’s spreading him open and his cock’s pressing into him and holy shit but it’s bigger than Dean remembers. It hurts like a mother and he’s shaking and gasping, sharp, fast little breaths and he shouldn’t even be hard anymore but he is, he’s harder than ever and there’s this incredible _pressure_ in his balls and his dick and the deeper Jack goes, the more intense it gets.

“Please,” he blurts. He doesn’t even know he says it.

Jack stills, halfway there, and folds down over him instantly. “More?” he asks. “Less?”

But Dean can’t say anything coherent, just, “ _Annggh. Unh. Jaaa –_ ”

“Yeah, okay,” Jack mutters, stroking his palm up and down Dean’s side. “Just breathe.” Dean takes a deep breath and feels a bit of the tension unwind. “You feel so good.” Jack’s mouth is against his shoulder, his neck, kisses warming his skin. “So good.” His voice drops so low Dean can hardly hear him. “Best ever.”

When Dean’s breathing evens out and he relaxes a bit, he gets enough brain function back to say, “C’mon, move. What’re you waitin’ for?”

Jack thrusts gently, and then again, working slowly deeper. There’s pulses of warm energy working outward from deep inside Dean, spreading along his nerves until it makes his toes curl, his scalp tingle. He can’t feel his fingers and he wonders vaguely if that should worry him.

"More." Dean pants. "Harder."

“You know, I’m gonna take you back to the motel and do this all over again,” Jack says, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice. “Need to keep you in good working condition.”

He pushes deep, all the way. Dean grunts and arches against him. It’s a shock when Jack pulls all the way out, the surprise of it makes him gasp. Jack slicks the tip of his cock back and forth over Dean’s hole, teasing. Dean bits back a whine, swears at him instead, but he tilts his hips up and pushes back.

“Yeah,” Jack breathes. “Fuck, yeah. Take it.”

Jack holds still, lets Dean impale himself on his cock, both of them moaning, Jack’s hand spasmodically clenching at Dean’s hip. Dean bottoms out and Jack twists forward grinding into him until Dean thinks he can feel Jack’s cock in the back of his throat. It’s still too much, but Dean doesn’t give a shit. Too much feels fucking awesome. He can take too much, if it’s going to feel like this.

Jack fucks him then, for real. Long, deep, steady, hard strokes and Dean realizes it’s going to be over in no time, because he’s so wired, so worked up that he’s about to spill as it is, no hands, no nothing. Jack’s hands are on his hips, tight, but not bruising, holding him up off the hood of the Impala and he’s fucking into him faster, harsher. Dean reaches for his dick, and he isn’t really all that surprised when Jack grabs his hand, twists it around to the small of his back, then his other one. What does surprise Dean is the sound he makes when Jack does it, a strangled moan that even to Dean’s ears sounds unabashedly pornographic.

Jack’s hips stutter and he slams into Dean hard and fast and then he groans from way down deep, like his soul’s being ripped out of him. Dean feels the throb in his ass as Jack comes, tightens around him, moaning, feeling his own dick swell and twitch, spurting precome. He almost sobs, he’s so close, but he can’t, he can’t. Jack’s gasping and moaning and he’s saying stuff about Dean, stuff that Dean doesn’t think he wants to hear, and he can’t hear it anyway over the sound of his own panting breaths.

Jack lets go of his wrists, pulls Dean upright so he’s leaning back against him, his arm around his waist, hand on his cock, jerking him fast, his thumb pressing right _there_. Jack’s still inside him, and they’re still moving together. Dean moans, his head falling back onto Jack’s shoulder.

“That’s right,” Jack murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Dean lifts his head, looks down at his dick in Jack’s hand. The sight makes him shudder.

“Oh. _Unh_. Jesus,” Dean gasps, excitement surging. “Jesus, I’m gonna come all over the car.”

“Do it, Dean.” Jack’s voice is wrecked, gravelly and hoarse. “You know you want to.”

Pleasure unspools at the small of Dean's back, low in his belly, across his thighs. It takes him hard, so he can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t move. There’re stars at the edges of his vision, inferno-like heat filling him, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. He’s soundless, his body frozen as he watches jets of milky white land on black metal and fuck that’s a beautiful thing. Then his eyes roll back in his head and he finds his voice, gasping loud and his hips push back onto Jack’s dick and forward into his hand. It’s bone-deep, achingly good, it’s so far beyond good it isn’t even funny. He’d be on the ground if Jack wasn’t holding him up, ‘cause his legs feel like spaghetti, so he just lets himself go limp and lean back against Jack’s chest while he works the last bit of Dean’s orgasm out of him.

When it’s over he stands there a minute more, his weight resting on Jack, not quite able to move yet, but when Jack pulls away, leaving him feeling empty and sticky and cold, he hikes his jeans up with fumbling fingers, dazed and uncoordinated. He turns around and Jack’s already back together, wiping his hand on a handkerchief.

Dean’s about to make a wisecrack when Jack disarms him by pulling him into a hug. Dean’s not much of a hugger, but he lets Jack get away with it just this once, and if he leans a bit heavily into him or presses his face to the crook of Jack’s neck, well, it’s just because he’s still all sex-muddled and doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Jack’s fingers brush the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck and Dean pretends not to notice that, or the kiss that Jack presses to the top of his head.

“That was amazing,” Jack says.

“Being a hunter’s made you toppy as hell, Doc,” Dean mumbles.

Jack laughs. “I’m no toppier than before, Dean. Really,” he says when Dean pulls away to give him a disbelieving look. “I’d nearly been been a chupacabra’s dinner, if you remember. I could barely move. It’s got nothing to do with being a hunter. I’ve always been this way.”

“Control freak.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Okay. Well.” Dean looks over Jack’s shoulder, at the graffiti-painted brick wall of the bar. “What now? You headin’ out?”

Jack tilts his head and looks at Dean with a puzzled expression. “I’ve got a room. I thought we were going there. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

Dean feels relief wash through him. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d not wanted the night to end with a fuck in the parking lot.

“Yeah, okay Doc. Lead on.” He turns toward his car and stops short when he sees the mess on the hood.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“It’ll be okay. We can clean it up at the motel,” Jack says.

“We?” Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Doin’ it on the car was _your_ bright idea, Sunshine.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jack admits. “I’ll clean it up.”

“Damn right you will.” Dean stares for a minute. “It better not damage the paint.”

He looks up to see Jack chuckling, and okay, maybe it’s a little funny. He gets in the car, pulls out of the parking lot behind Jack’s truck. Dean’s not really thinking, his brain turned off, just focused on driving and on the tail lights in front of him. His body’s loose and relaxed and warm. He’s feeling very well-fucked and it’s a feeling he could really get used to. In the distance there’s a sign, the Idle-A-While Motel. Jack turns on his blinker.

Dean hears Jack’s voice in his head, _I’m gonna take you back to the motel and do this all over again_.

Oh, yeah. It’s gonna be a good night.

 


End file.
